


Fucking Feelings

by IAmANonnieMouse



Series: Nash Fics for Flos [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Nash swears a lot, Post-Canon, Post-Inception, arthur makes a brief cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: “Stop giving me so many fucking feelings,” Nash mutters between kisses. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was just a lonely fuck, and you were just—”Robert pulls away and presses their foreheads together. “Stop talking,” he whispers.“Okay,” Nash breathes as Robert pushes him back against the couch. “Okay, sweetheart.”(or: Nash meets Robert in a bar one night and then suddenly they're texting and spending time together and Nash is getting so many fucking feelings, what the fuck)
Relationships: Robert Fischer/Nash
Series: Nash Fics for Flos [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928443
Comments: 14
Kudos: 12





	Fucking Feelings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flosculatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory/gifts).



> Okay, so a couple weeks ago, I made my mouse spouse [flosculatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory/pseuds/flosculatory) a promise, and this afternoon, I completely broke it. So to repent and grovel and beg for forgiveness in the hopes that she won't make me sleep on the couch tonight, I wrote her a 3k Nash fic over the course of 2 hours and change.
> 
> To my one and only (plus dei and storm): BABE I'M REALLY SORRY I FORGOT AND BROKE MY PROMISE TO YOU AND I HOPE YOU'LL BE ABLE TO FORGIVE ME BUT EVEN IF YOU CAN'T I WROTE YOU A FIC BECAUSE I LOVE YOU SO :SOB:
> 
> (i am realizing how dramatic this sounds without context and am now laughing. if any of you are worried, this all happened during a game, like, a literal game we were playing. I promised never to steal flos' pieces again, then forgot, and stole them.)
> 
> (fic based on prompt from [this post](https://iamanonniemouse.tumblr.com/post/624700226117271552/nash-centric-fics-i-want) that flos made ages ago)

It’s a totally skeevy bar, but Nash has had to lower his standards a bit since the botched Cobol job. By the time Saito’s men were done with him, the rest of dreamshare had heard the news, and Nash was shit out of luck with job offers for the time being. 

So, he packed all his important shit in a bag and decided to just backpack across Europe. (This was code for _find something to do until people, cough, Arthur, were no longer pissed at him for messing up the fucking carpet._ ) 

And that’s why he’s here, in some hole-in-the-wall dive, sipping an overpriced, watered-down beer and wondering when he’ll get another job offer. Oh, and getting his ass kicked by this stranger in a game of pool. But hey, this is how you make friends in the real world, isn’t it?

He’s considering the best angle of attack for when it’s his turn again, when he spots him.

Everyone in the bar notices him, actually. He stands out like a sore thumb, with his beautifully-cut suit and his “What the fuck, bitch?” expression. Nash loves him already.

He takes a seat at the far end of the bar, and Nash watches him scan the room, lips pursed ever-so-slightly. He’s got his phone out, and he’s staring at it like it’s got the answers to the universe in it.

Pool stranger clears the table before it’s Nash’s turn, but that’s totally fine. It’s actually fan-fucking-tastic, as far as Nash is concerned. He slaps the guy on the shoulder, thanks him for the good game, then makes a beeline for the empty stool next to the man in his million-dollar suit.

“A word of advice?” Nash says, his charming veneer quickly coming back to him. “Don’t order the beer. It tastes like piss.”

The man turns to look at him, and Nash’s heart stops. Robert fucking Fischer. What the fuck.

“Thanks,” Fischer says. His tone matches his bitchface expression, but his eyes quickly dart up and down, looking at Nash from head to toe. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Nash pushes aside his shock and tries again. “On the bright side, I’ve eaten here a couple times and haven’t gotten food poisoning yet.”

“A stunning endorsement.” Fischer waves over the bartender. “Scotch, neat,” he says in the tone of men used to getting their way. “Top shelf.”

The bartender snorts. “Yeah, sure thing, buddy.” He takes two steps away and pulls an unmarked bottle from underneath the counter, glancing at Fischer to make sure he’s paying attention. He maintains eye contact the entire time he’s pouring the alcohol into a glass, then slides it unceremoniously across the bar.

Nash is trying desperately not to laugh.

“Wanna open a tab?” the bartender asks, arching a brow.

Fischer nods and pulls out his wallet. Nash catches a glimpse of more cards than any human should have — except maybe Eames, after he’s had a productive day of picking pockets. Fischer hands one over, and the bartender snorts again before walking away.

Fischer takes a sip of his Scotch, and the corner of his mouth dips ever-so-subtly into a frown. “What do you like about this place?” he asks.

“What?” Nash says smoothly.

“You’ve eaten here multiple times,” Fischer says. “You must like the place.”

Nash snorts. “Eh. Not really. It’s cheap, it’s quiet. Nobody gives a shit who I am.”

“In that regard, I can see the appeal.”

Nash props an elbow on the bar and leans in a little closer. “Something tells me cheap isn’t your style.”

Fischer purses his lips. “It didn’t used to be.” He glances at Nash, eyes flickering up and down again. “Why do you like anonymity?”

“Right to the point,” Nash says, arching a brow. “I messed up a job. Ruined it for everyone. I’m kind of a social outcast now, and I’ve decided the best way to work through my feelings of disappointment and anger is to drink.”

Fischer nods slowly. “My father died,” he says. “Things are…strange.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Nash says, as if he hasn’t watched the news once in the past month. 

Fischer takes another sip of his Scotch. Grimaces again. “I don’t know how to feel about it. When he first died, I was happy. I spent my life disappointing him, but at least now I couldn’t do anything worse.”

Nash blinks. “But now?”

“Now…” Fischer tosses back the rest of his drink and swallows, nose scrunched in a way Nash should not find endearing. “Now, I don’t know. Maybe he was disappointed in me because I was trying too hard to be like him. Maybe I should try to branch out on my own.” He looks at Nash. “So instead of addressing my uncertainty and low self-esteem, I decided to drink.”

“I approve,” Nash says, returning Fischer’s fleeting smile. “So what made you pick this bar? It definitely isn’t your usual haunt.”

“What gave it away?” Fischer asks wryly. 

“It’s a tie between the suit and the request for top shelf Scotch."

Fischer sighs and gestures at the bartender for another drink. “I’m working through a bucket list,” he says. “I...heard that’s a thing people do.”

“Okay.”

“I got the list off the internet.”

“Less okay.”

Fischer glances at him, eye glittering with humor. “I made sure not to pick one that said jump off a building or swim with sharks.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was worried about,” Nash jokes. “So what, the list told you to drink at a cheap bar?”

Fischer shakes his head. “No, I just decided that while I’m doing this bucket list, I’m going to avoid all the places I used to go. I want a clean slate.”

“Sounds nice,” Nash admits. “A fresh start.”

Fischer sips his new Scotch. He’s grimacing less. Must be getting used to it. “Your work thing,” he says, “that you messed up. How bad was it?”

Nash shrugs and glances down at the bar, spinning his beer bottle between his hands. “I haven’t gotten any calls for new jobs in the last month or so.”

“You freelance?” Fischer asks.

Nash’s heart skips a beat. Sloppy. “Uh, yeah. And it’s a small world, so the people I worked with know just about everyone I might work with in the future. Word spread fast.”

Fischer sighs. “Yeah, I get that.”

They fall into a comfortable quiet. Nash sips his beer, Fischer works through his Scotch. Across the bar, Pool Dude is kicking some other guy’s ass, which makes Nash feel marginally better about his pool skills.

He sees a movement out of the corner of his eye and turns back just as Fischer closes out his tab. “Leaving already?” he asks, trying not to think about why he’s disappointed. This is the first time he’s had a conversation with someone outside of dreamshare, he tells himself. He’s just a lonely fuck. That’s all.

Fischer nods and pulls out his wallet. “Here,” he says, handing Nash a business card. The damn thing’s got gold foil on it or something. “I enjoyed talking with you. Call me.”

Nash blinks. “Can I text this number, or is it an office phone?”

Fischer blushes. “I’m bad at this. What’s your number?” he asks, pulling out his cell phone. Then he hesitates, and his eyes flicker up then away. “If you want to give it to me. You don’t have to. I assumed, and I—”

Nash plucks the phone out of his hand and enters his number. “There,” he says, dialing it until his phone vibrates in his pocket. “And now I have your number too.”

Fischer takes his phone back slowly. “Okay. Thanks. This was...nice.”

Nash smiles and toasts him with his beer. “Let me know how that bucket list goes. If you want company for anything on it, call me.”

Fischer nods. “I will.”

He leaves quickly. Nash ponders the whole exchange as he sips his watery beer. 

His phone buzzes with a new text message before he’s even left the bar.

*

They text. They text a lot, actually. Nash hadn’t pegged Fischer for a texter, but it turns out Fischer’s more open there than he is in person.

They text each other good morning. They text over breakfast. They text about silly shit the people around them are doing. They text about dinner plans. They meet up for drinks. They go for drives. 

Soon, Nash is thinking of him as _Robert_ and wondering what restaurant they should eat at next. 

It’s a little strange, Nash thinks. But it’s been months now, and he still isn’t getting any calls for jobs, and Robert’s the only guy on the globe who will talk to him, and he’s just a lonely fuck who wants some attention. 

That’s all it is.

*

Robert: _I’m flying to Sydney later this week._

Nash: _Is that an invitation?_

Robert: _Do you want it to be?_

Nash: _What should I pack?_

*

Robert flies them to Sydney in his private jet. Nash tries not to act like the poor kid he is, but based on Robert’s small smirk, he doesn’t succeed.

“I’m rich,” Robert says, like that explains everything.

“I know you are,” Nash says, kicking his feet up and sipping the fancy beer the stewardess brought him. “I watch the news, Rob.”

Robert blushes, and Nash is no longer trying to lie to himself — the blush is fucking adorable. “You acted like you didn’t know me at the bar that night.”

“I like my anonymity,” Nash says. “I figured you liked yours, too.”

Robert smiles subtly, fleetingly. 

It makes Nash have too many weird feelings, so he chugs his beer like the heathen he is.

*

They stay at Robert’s mansion of a home in Sydney. Nash gets the guest room right next to Robert’s.

“I’ve decided to go my own way,” he tells Nash their first night there. “I’m going to break up my father’s empire.”

They’re curled up on his couch, plastered against each other’s sides, watching _Die Hard._ Nash is a little surprised it isn’t some subtitled Sundance Film Festival pick, but he’s not the type to complain about explosions and shit.

“You sure?” Nash asks. 

“Yeah,” Robert says, voice rough. “I’m sure.”

Nash leans in a little closer and isn’t surprised when Robert’s arm drops from the back of the couch to wrap around his shoulders. “So,” he says two hours later, when the credits are rolling, “am I your new travel buddy or are you trying to get me to be a personal assistant?”

Robert laughs and says, “What do you want to watch next?”

*

Sometimes, at night, Nash wonders what would happen if he walked down the carpeted hallway and quietly opened Robert’s door.

And then Nash tells himself he’s a lonely fuck and it's a bad idea and he should go back to bed.

*

Later in the week, Robert sits down to breakfast in a gorgeously-tailored suit. Nash chokes on his cereal.

“What?” Robert asks, eyes wide around the edges. “Does the tie not match?”

Nash swallows his cereal. He’s gotten used to Relaxed Robert, who lounges around in sweatpants and worn t-shirts, who puts his feet on the coffee table like any other guy and chews with his mouth open when he’s laughing at something Nash has said.

He’s forgotten, somehow, someway, that this is Robert Fucking Fischer, heir to Fischer Morrow. 

“Fuck me,” Nash blurts. “You look fucking hot.”

Robert blinks, and his cheeks turn pink.

It’s so fucking adorable it hurts.

*

They’ve been in Sydney a month. Robert’s starting to put together plans for his new empire that he’s going to build, and Nash is working through Robert’s food and alcohol supply in the mansion. They spend their nights curled together on the couch watching silly action movies. Nash is trying not to overthink it.

“Is this weird?” he asks Robert more than once during their meals. “I’m just here. Living off you. Doing nothing. Do you want me to, like, clean or something?”

Robert flashes a smile at him. “I like having you here.”

Nash stuffs a forkful of food in his mouth, to stop himself from saying something stupid.

*

One night, Robert comes home from the office and immediately pours them both a healthy glass of Scotch.

“Top shelf,” he says, trying to smile.

“What’s wrong?” Nash asks.

They sit on the couch and stare at the TV, even though it’s off. Nash sips his drink while Robert guzzles his and pours another.

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Nash says, frowning. “What is it? What happened?”

Robert throws back his second glass and turns to Nash, cheeks flushed. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.”

“Starting over?”

Robert nods. “I just…” He runs a hand through his hair and yanks off his tie and jacket. He kicks his shoes clear across the room. “I’m sick of feeling like I never do enough.”

Nash sighs and slides across the couch, pulling Robert close. “Rob, you do plenty.”

“I’m a disappointment.”

“Rob.”

Robert turns in his arms, trembling with barely restrained energy. Frustration, Nash thinks. But also anticipation? There’s a tension in the room, stretched between them. They’re so close their noses brush. “Say it again,” Robert says, so close his breath tickles Nash’s face.

“Say what?”

Robert kisses him. It’s brief and fleeting, and then he’s leaning back slightly, eyes wide, saying, “Call me sweetheart again. Please.”

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Nash says, and he raises a hand to cup Robert’s cheek and pulls him in close. This kiss is better, slower and sweeter and, fuck, so adorable it hurts. 

They kiss and kiss and _kiss,_ and Nash wishes he could blame it on the Scotch, but he really, really can’t.

“Stop giving me so many fucking feelings,” Nash mutters between kisses. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was just a lonely fuck, and you were just—”

Robert pulls away and presses their foreheads together. “Stop talking,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Nash breathes as Robert pushes him back against the couch. “Okay, sweetheart.”

*

Robert: _Come over tonight?_

Nash: _Can’t. Got a date with the hottest guy in the world._

Robert: _Quit it._

*

Nash gets a job offer two weeks after they return home from Sydney. He shows up at Robert’s door with a really fucking expensive bottle of Scotch, and they celebrate.

In the morning, he follows his trail of clothes all the way back to the front door. Robert gives him a kiss goodbye, and he’s on a plane that afternoon.

*

Robert: _New company opening tomorrow._

Nash: _Fuck, already?_

Robert: _It’s been almost a year since my father died._

Nash: _Still._

Nash: _You okay?_

Robert: _I will be._

Nash: _I’m sorry this job’s running long. I wish I were there._

Robert: _I miss you._

Nash: _Miss you, too._

*

They settle into a rhythm. Dinners and date nights, with a couple international flights thrown in. Robert starts insisting Nash use his private jet to get to jobs. Nash follows Robert across the globe, tags along as his plus one at business functions and dinners.

Robert buys Nash a bespoke suit. Nash buys Robert alcohol. 

When the first quarter’s reports come in, Robert drags Nash straight into the bedroom and they don’t emerge for hours.

“I knew you could do it,” Nash says, grinning wildly. “I fucking told you, sweetheart.”

Everything’s perfect and crazy and amazing and Nash has so many fucking feelings it should be illegal.

And then Arthur knocks on his door.

*

“Okay,” Arthur says the minute Nash opens the door, “what’s your angle?”

Nash blinks. “What?”

Arthur holds up a cut out from a newspaper. There’s a full-page photo of Nash and Robert from the most recent dinner they attended.

Nash thinks he wears the suit very well.

“What’s your angle?” Arthur repeats. “Are you just trying to fuck us over?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Nash asks. “Is it a crime to fuck millionaires or something?”

Arthur lowers the photo and stares at him, jaw clenched. “Let me in,” he says.

Nash sighs and lets Arthur in.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks.

Arthur stops just inside the doorway. “After you gave us up—”

“Oh fuck you man, Saito tracked me down and had his goons—”

“After that,” Arthur says over him, “we took a job from Saito. Inception.”

Nash snorts. “Wow. And you’re still alive?”

Arthur crosses his arms. “We were hired to incept Robert Fischer and convince him to break up his father’s empire.”

Nash’s world comes grinding to a halt. “You what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.” Arthur scowls. “So we finish the job, everything’s great, we all go back to our lives, and then I perform a routine checkup on Fischer, and whose ugly fucking mug do I see?”

“That was rude,” Nash comments. “Robert doesn’t think it’s that ugly.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Look, if it’s money you want, I’ve got plenty. But if you think you can fucking blackmail us into doing—”

“Arthur—”

“Then you’ve got another thing coming, because you _know_ how—”

“ _Arthur._ ”

Arthur stops and glares. “What?”

Nash sighs. “I swear, I had no idea about the job, and I had no idea you had any connection to Robert.”

Arthur looks unconvinced.

“Dreamshare cut me out,” Nash says. “You know it, you’re the reason they did! I didn’t get a job offer for fucking _months._ None of my contacts would even answer my fucking phone calls, because someone told them I messed up the fucking carpet and sold out my fucking team!”

Arthur looks slightly convinced.

Nash sighs. “You can check all of it. I know you can pull phone records and shit, you can see who I’ve been in contact with, which is _nobody_. I just started getting back into dreamshare, and I swear to god if you fuck me over again, I’ll…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I’ll do. I know better than to threaten you. But seriously, pull everything on me. Do a full background check, steal out of my bank accounts, I don’t give a shit. It’ll be pretty fucking clear that I met Robert by chance, and I’m not trying to blackmail you or whoever else was on the job.”

Arthur stares at him for a long time, but he hasn’t pulled the gun he’s carrying, so Nash is going to treat that as a good sign.

“Okay,” Arthur says slowly. “I’ll check it out. But if I see one hint—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nash waves a hand. “Listen, if you clean me out, can you leave enough for me to buy Robert a ring? I’ve been working up to it, I just need to find one that won’t fucking embarrass him, you know?”

Arthur blinks. “I’ll send you something,” he says, and he lets himself out the door.

That afternoon, Nash gets a text from a blocked number. It says, _Buy him this one,_ with a link.

Nash bites back a smile and orders the ring that day.

*

Robert: _Babe, your invite list is really short. You sure there’s nobody else you want to add? You only get to marry me once, you know._

Nash: _Sorry, just saw this. It’s a crazy job this time around. I told you, Rob, I don’t have any family to invite, just people I’ve met through work._

Robert: _And is there a reason this Arthur doesn’t have a last name?_

Nash: _Don’t worry about that one, I’ll address it when I’m back home._

Robert: _Is this where you tell me you have a secret guy on the side?_

Nash: _Fuck no, sweetheart, you’re my one and only._

Nash: _Now stop digging to make me say sappy shit like that._

Nash: _Manipulative bastard._

Robert: _Love you too_

Nash: _Gotta go, boss wants a meeting. I’ll call you tonight._

Robert: _Skype?_

Nash: _FUCK ME, SWEETHEART, YOU HAVE THE BEST IDEAS._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [Valkrist (Anouk_Tyrell)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anouk_Tyrell/pseuds/Valkrist) Log in to view. 




End file.
